I even go so far as to draw up a
little catalogue of my acts and achievements. I can recall men who have
said much sillier things than I have ever said, and published much worse
stuff than I have ever written. I repeat to myself the rather striking
epigram I made at Smith's house last week, and I go back to the old
gentleman from Andover who two years ago told me that there was
something about me that reminded him of Oliver Wendell Holmes. By dint
of much trying I work myself up into something of a glow; but it is all
artificial, cerebral, incubated. The exaltation is momentary, the cold
chill of fact overtakes me. There is no use in deceiving one's self.
Philip is mistaken. I am not worthy.
But that day Philip rallied nobly to the situation. My little remark on
strong language had hurt him, but he saw also that I was sorry to have
hurt him, and he was sorry for me in turn. "I don't in the least mind
your telling me what you think about the way we fellows talk," he said.
"That's the advantage of having a man for one's friend, he is not afraid
of telling you the truth even if it hurts.
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